AN: Wow. It's crazy to think that I wrote this story over eleven years ago when I was a silly teenager. Yet, so many people have read, enjoyed, followed, and reviewed it. Unfortunately, I will NOT be continuing this story, so if you'd like to click away, go ahead. But if you enjoyed The South Side even a little (and now that I've gotten older and reread my childish story, I honestly cringe while reading it), I have written and finished another story that might pique your interest.
Since I was a kid, it's always been a dream of mine to publish a novel, and I've finally done it. I wrote a teen/YA fiction called "Die Young in the Wilde" and it's available for purchase (both ebook & paperback) on amazon. The plot is about a cynical, reckless sixteen-year-old who is adopted by a good family—there's a more in-depth summary on the detail page. However, since you've taken your time to read this, I figured I'd post the first chapter here as a preview. If you're interested, read on. The material below is fully copyrighted by me.
FIGHT - I
"When all is said and done, what kind of man do you wanna be? I mean, you gonna let your mom, your brother, your crappy circumstances—you gonna let them define who you are? Only you can decide. The choice is yours alone. Your life sucks—I get that. But to let that decide your future? That's weak. There's something better than that. You're made for more than that. I wanna see you fight for real."
Tim's charge echoes through my head. The wind pushes clouds to obscure the moon. It's darker now, harder to see, but light pollution still glows on the horizon of black sky. The street is empty—a flickering lamppost battles pitifully to illuminate a five-foot radius. Just give up; you're not doing much anyway.
A conspicuous clanking draws my gaze forward. Mase clambers over the chain-linked fence in front of us like a rat pack in discord. Why here? A 'No trespassing' sign wobbles warningly to his right. Could hear that racket five blocks away. A dumpster-diving cat perks its ears at us. Finally, Mase hops off the top and spares us the noise going down. The fence isn't tall, but his feet fumble the landing and he kicks up dirt around him. He turns back to me.
"You comin' or not, baby bro?"
Fight. That's all I've been doing lately. A quiet one starts as I stare at my half-brother through the metallic links. Highs always take away the best of him. A boxing match between legality and fidelity ensues in my mind. Neither side appeals to me and I wouldn't advise any bets.
I withdraw further into my hoodie. Clammy fists stick like glue in the pockets. Despite knowing it's useless, a weak voice crawls out of my mouth, "Please don't go."
Mase scoffs at my conscience. He twitches a glance behind him at the skeleton building. "Man, you shoulda left when I told you to. I'm doin' it. You was the one that wouldn't let me go alone in the first place." His voice jitters, too many rises and dips in his tone. He shifts from his toes to his heels, rocking inconsistently. A glimmer of desperation shines in his eyes, reflected by that pitiful streetlamp. The diamonds between us cast fragmented shadows over his face.
Correction: I tried to not let him go at all. Maybe I was a fool for thinking I could talk him out of it on the way. My stomach rolls in defeat. I have to have his back; what kind of man would I be if I bailed? A breath staggers through my nostrils and my eyes lift to shoot him a glare. I grasp the links between us. A smile cracks his lips. Swallowing a lump in my throat, I follow him into stupidity. My fingers thread up the cold metal and in a moment, I am by his side. Please, if there is a god: don't let trouble find us tonight.
"Good, I'm kinda glad you're comin'. Feels better to have some extra muscle behind me." He grins and claps a hand on my back that shocks like static electricity. Mase ignores my flinch and shuffles on with hasty steps. He rubs his arm incessantly; a tell-tale sign he's been using again. "I'll give you a cut, too, of course. Bringin' home a lil extra might help you out."
No it wouldn't.
"I really do wish you could stay with me, but I just can't swing it right now. Maybe after I join up and make some more money," he sighs.
Anger flickers to flare but I clench it in my teeth. Am I angry at him or me? Or everything? It burns me up inside and yet an ice spreads through my veins. A retort bottlenecks at the dam of my mouth, but no words spill. I ache to punch some sense into him, to beat him up right here and never make it to our destination. But I don't.
Together we make our way through the construction site in silence, amplifying Mase's ambling through mud, slipping and squashing like a dinosaur imprinting a fossil. Tomorrow, there'd be no question of our trespass. Over steel beams and plastic sheets, we head toward the concrete frame of a room without walls erected in the unfinished building.
A lumpy shadow leans against a pillar. We shouldn't be doing this. Air catches in my rib cage and my heart beats fiercely, but my brother does not share my trepidation. When Mase spies the looming figure, he hurries the last few steps to sell his soul.
"Yo, Mase. Was startin' to think ya wouldn't show. Quien este?" The man breaks from the cover of the dark. He is shorter than Mase, but twice as thick. Dark hair, dark brows, and dark eyes fit his heavy Hispanic accent. His head nods toward me, eyes scanning suspiciously.
"I'm here, ain't I, Tito? This's Cade, my lil' brother. He's cool, man, we can trust him. Doesn't say much and he'd never flip," Mase defends, throwing an arm around my shoulders to back up his argument. It sticks uncomfortably, but I don't weasel out of it for the sake of his show.
He scans over me thoroughly. "Tu hermanito no es tan pequeño," Tito mutters under his breath.
The comment passes over Mase, who incredibly speaks very little Spanish. He is eager to get on with it and thankfully removes his hold on me. "So, uh—the job—where is it? Where's the stuff?"
All color drains from me as my suspicions are confirmed. A naïve part of me kept hoping I was wrong, that maybe I'd misunderstood our intentions here tonight.
Tito habitually checks over his shoulder as if the stone could be listening. "Paciente, no está aquí. The guy who brought it into ATL stashed it. La policía is on me so I haven't been able to pick it up. That's where you come in."
I groan internally. Mase told me earlier how Tito's cousin worked on the site during the day and tipped him off that there wasn't any security at night, but that doesn't mean it's an ideal place for an illicit meet-up if the police are after you.
Neither of them shares my concern.
"Five grand to run it?" Mase confirms. His eyes dart around nervously as he rubs his injection marks.
Tito gives a small nod; he must be desperate since there's no negotiation. Fear flashes in his beady eyes and I realize he couldn't be much older than my brother. We're all in over our heads—young and dumb. Our attention is drawn taught as he cautiously tells us an address and detailed instructions to find the hiding place. Repeating it in my head, I commit it to memory carefully. Mase will probably forget the minute we leave—if he even took note of it all, that is.
"Here," the dealer pulls a folded square of paper from his pocket. "My guy told me he buried it—he drew this map for the location. They'll give cash when you bring it."
Mase unfolds the drawing. It's surprisingly easy to interpret the layout's illustrations; like a pirate's treasure map, an X marks the spot. Mase refolds the page, deposits it in his own pocket, then nods to seal the deal—and in my muteness, I aid and abet. I'm just as much of an idiot as they are. Two days after I'm old enough to drive and I let my brother drive me into the sewer.
A sudden flash of blue and red lights plummets my sinking stomach to an all-time low. The three of us whip around to a very unwelcome sight. Two cop cars pull out of the alley and flank the opposite entrance of the construction site. They block off the gate. Disembodied voices pierce the stale air and demand our surrender. The crackle of their speaker crawls through our ears and sickens. My mind races for a way to comply and explain away the situation, but Tito and Mase flip immediately.
"They follow you here, man?!" Mase bucks in panic and they both take off in a sprint. "Run, Cade!" With only a split second to decide, I bolt after them through the sleeping construction equipment.
The cops tear through the chain gate and pursue us on foot. Their flashlights bob behind, and my adrenaline pounds louder than the feet slamming the ground. We break left to a clear route. I am faster and outrun them to a crate at the edge. I leap on top in a single stride. With one more bound, I can catapult over the fence. Freedom lies on the other side. But I turn to look back. Tito is heavy, and the police are already slapping cuffs on him. Another cop tackles Mason to the ground. They scrape his face into the clay. He's wired and struggling, but the man overpowers him. From the platform, I launch myself at the officer, hoping that Mase can slip away. I successfully rip him off, but reinforcement comes too quickly. Someone yanks me back. I resist, but it's over for both of us. Mase never got a chance to flee.
"Stupid!" My brother hurls at me while his hands are pulled behind his back. "You coulda gotten away! Stop following after me, Cade—you shoulda just left!" His shouts turn to cries as they handcuff him. "You coulda gotten out."
My eyes shut in resignation. If there is a god, he clearly didn't hear me. All fight lost. The officer senses my surrender and grows gentler with me.
Instructions are delivered as they shove me into the back of a squad car, but I know I am entitled to nothing. I bang my head against the window.
After what feels like hours, the door to my holding room opens and a new cop enters. Not in a uniform, he holds himself differently than the officers before. He wears a button-down tucked into black slacks. His belt brandishes an APD badge. Though well-groomed with a tight haircut, a salt and pepper beard covers his chin and wizened eyes tell of experience. I've had plenty of time to think, and this new character confirms it.
A special unit of investigators tailed Tito tonight. They thought he'd lead them to the drop site and busted in at the handover, not knowing that the contraband was never there to begin with. Now the only thing they can pin us for is trespassing.
The man takes his seat across the table and sets a water bottle in front of me. Then he folds his hands restfully atop his crossed leg. He begins casually, "So, I'm told you were referred to as Cade during the arrest, but you've sat in complete silence for two hours while we've talked to Mason Wilde and Tito Herrera. Usually we start with the youngest first. They're more pliable and likely to talk. We get the story from them, and then we move on to the hardened guys with a couple priors. But not this time, huh? They said you wouldn't even give your name."
My gaze affixes to the table. He wants me to look at him, but I don't. It's hard not to retreat internally inside four cinderblock walls with nothing to do. Numbness consumes—and at this point, I'm not sure if my lips remember how to move.
"Your brother and I have talked. We have a pretty good idea of what went down, so you're not protecting him by staying silent." He leans in and sets his arms on the table in a softened gesture. "You're just the little brother that couldn't help tagging along. You could've gotten away, but I'm told you came back for Mason, right? That's loyalty right there."
So why is he even speaking to me? He could be lying and trying to turn me against them. Buttering me up with the understanding act, convincing me talking will only help—then I crack, and we lose. We've lost either way, but I won't be a snitch. I narrow my eyes and finally chance a glance.
The detective catches my suspicion and offers a friendly smile. "Your brother told me your name is Caden. Happy late sixteenth birthday, by the way. My name is Lieutenant Doug Ross; I'm with the narcotics unit. I'd say nice to meet you, but unfortunately I'd rather not under these circumstances."
A small snort escapes me at his dim humor. The cop calculates his words skillfully in a ploy of caring and comradery—but I know it's all a farce. His confident posture alerts me to the ruse. In reality, my predicament means nothing to him.
"Aha!" he catches me and chuckles. "There is someone in there! I commend your willpower of using the right to remain silent to its fullest extent, but we have no intention of taking advantage of you. We've tried calling your mother but couldn't get through to her. You've never been in trouble with law enforcement before. We don't want to press charges and we don't want to hold you overnight; Mason was very clear that you have nothing to do with this except your inability to leave him alone."
Well, at least he had my back now. It would've been nice if he'd decided to be an upstanding guy four hours ago. It's still unclear how honest the lieutenant is being, but his leniency seems genuine.
"And what about my brother?" I finally break the silent act.
My sudden voice pleasantly surprises him, but his levity stiffens before he answers. "Mason won't be so lucky. He's not a minor, he has a prior arrest, he's high, and he was carrying cocaine. We also found a stolen gun in his pocket."
Numbness flees; I recoil at the news and can't hide a grimace. Drugs will lock him away again. How many bad choices did he make tonight? Tripping and carrying—while he trespassed to meet a drug dealer! And I went with him? What a waste—why the heck should I care when he digs his own grave? That thought turns sour. A memory invades my mind: twelve-year-old Mason hides me in a closet, shielding the door. He always protects me in the end. I push the palms of my hands into my temples and rub until I see stars.
"I feel you, buddy," Lieutenant Ross sighs. "Rough night all around. I wish it didn't have to be like this. Now listen," he waits for my acquiescence in the form of eye contact, so I force myself to meet him. When it's good enough, he continues. "From what I gather, Mason got in with the wrong people. Tito Herrera is not the kind of friend he wanted to accept a job from. We know Tito was in charge of a shipment from the Mexican border. Mason swears that nothing happened, you both know nothing, and we interrupted you before Tito said anything. Is that about right?" He pauses and waits for me to respond.
I don't reply right away. There's something odd about his delivery. Why would he offer up the story and then ask me to confirm? Either he's telling the truth—that this is the story Mase is sticking to—or he's testing me. He doesn't gain anything by supplying me with the account and he's too competent to design a useless interrogation. A realization strikes: they already searched Mase. They would've found the map, as well. The lieutenant must know about that. But it doesn't matter; I lose either way. If I say yes, he knows I'm lying to him. If I say no, then I have to tell him the truth.
So I shrug my shoulders.
Unexpectedly, Ross laughs. "And now I see why you prefer to remain silent. You can't lie, can you?" It was a test. He places the evidence in front of me. I curtail myself from looking at it. "As you probably guessed, we leaned on him a little harder and Mason gave one more detail. He swears that Tito only just told the location and instructions on how to find the shipment. Inconveniently, he also swears that he can't remember the instructions for the life of him. And of course, Tito won't talk at all about this—though it doesn't matter with what we already have on him. But I have a suspicion that you were a little more lucid than your brother. I think you know what this is," his fingers tap the diagram, "and I think you remember where it is."
Another moment passes. My hands are only figuratively tied. Cold sweat creeps upon me like a spider. If I speak the truth, will my brother be in even more trouble? Will he be in danger? Tito will know I squealed—we'll both be in danger. I can't rat. Is there even a safe way out?
"Caden, I assure you, telling us will only help. We can protect both of you. Think about it: this shipment is no doubt a load of drugs—they might even lace it with fentanyl. We can't let them get it; we can't let them endanger so many people." Ross appeals to some morality he perceives I have. Is it because I came back for my brother? He goes on:
"Anything you remember can help. Where is the place indicated in this map?"
It doesn't click. The plane fails to land. They can't protect us. They won't help us. Even for the potential safety of hypothetical strangers, I won't trade Mase's life. I might not live to see my next birthday, but I can't be the reason my brother is murdered.
"I don't know the place," I dance around the lie. And Ross knows it instantly.
The detective secedes his presence from the table and kicks back in his chair, disappointment stings his face. I'd let him down, and somehow that hurts.
Almost an hour later, the door of the interrogation room opens again, but this time it isn't the detective. I risk an upward glance to see a man almost my height dressed in a pricey suit jacket with an unbuttoned collar—like he rushed out and forwent a tie. No APD badge. His dark hair sweeps back from his forehead and thick eyebrows frame large chestnut eyes fixed intently upon me. Laugh lines and crow's feet decorate his face, and the creases in his skin indicate he's probably in his forties like the detective. The man surveys me and accepts the next occupancy in the interrogator's seat. Before the words leave his mouth, I guess what he will say.
"Caden Wilde, right? You don't look sixteen," he announces in good humor.
I get that comment a lot. At over 6'3 and 180 pounds of muscle, few believe my age. With the life I live, I can't afford to be scrawny. Figuring the reason he's here, I mutter, "I didn't ask for a lawyer."
"Oh, believe me, I know. But Lieutenant Doug Ross out there is an old buddy of mine. He's told me about you and your little ordeal. But he can't just drop charges without making it a bit of a hassle. That's what I'm here for; I'm the hassle. I happen to be a defense attorney, and it seems you need some sense knocked into you while I'm here," he jests and winks amicably. "I'm Mack Korver; feel free to call me Mack." He wears a warm smile and spreads a file in front of us.
He waits for me to say something, but I don't bother since he'll continue regardless.
"How long have you been in here?" he asks to build rapport.
It's been approximately four hours and many questions; I am tired of them and muster no answer.
"I'm sure Doug's brought you something to eat and drink?"
I tilt my head at the empty water bottle to my right, and that satisfies him. They'd brought me a sandwich, too.
"Boy, you're a real talker, aren't you? Well then, let's get down to business. I've been given your file. Want to know what it says?"
I really don't care, but my eyes flick up at him. If he keeps expecting responses, we'll be here the rest of the morning.
"It says you're a smart kid who got a raw deal in life. You've got a decently long list of truancy and fighting in school. Your grades are mostly missing due to absences, but your test scores are great. A 1500 on your PSAT? That's incredible. It's easy to tell you're intelligent. I wasn't in here longer than a minute before you guessed I was a lawyer. So tell me: why is someone as smart as you sitting in the hot seat here?"
Again, he waits for my response. The truth is, I don't know. Maybe if I was as smart as he's insinuating, I wouldn't be here. I let out a breath and push the uncomfortable chair off the ground to balance on two legs. I try to muster up a faux nonchalance, but I cower from his analytical stare. The way he looks at me—with genuine concern softening his features—it sickens. A sinkhole collapses in my gut. Is it guilt? Shame? What did the detective and this lawyer do that makes me feel so conscientious?
"Can I leave now?" I manage to choke out evenly.
Korver sighs at me with pity. "Look, kid, I know how you feel. I've been where you've been. I get that you're trying to watch out for your big brother, but after everything, do you really think you should follow him? He's a 21-year-old adult who's made some really poor choices—and he's going to have to pay for them. Don't ruin your life for him. You can have a future. You could do almost anything you set your mind to. You just need to make some better choices. What were you doing at that construction site with them?" he begs with such exasperation that I almost fold and confess everything. Almost.
He doesn't get it. Screwed up or not, my brother is the only one who really cares for me. An image of Mason taking the blame for a busted TV haunts my mind. It rained that day, and he didn't want to throw the football inside—but I had begged. It was my poor throw that toppled the TV. Mason took the beating for it.
Turning on him would steal his future and cement his death.
This time, I force myself to maintain steady eye contact. I speak carefully so my tone can't be misconstrued as disrespectful. "You say I'm a smart kid, and maybe you're right. Smart enough to know that there is no future for a kid like me. With government policies designed to create under-achieving dependents addicted to their handouts and squash those that rise against the narrative, I'd hate to get my hopes up," I remark sarcastically. The chair legs hit the floor. I mirror the detective from earlier and fold my hands on the table, allowing my last words to wallow in the air: "My life isn't worth much anyway."
But the look on the lawyer's face exhausts any bravado I have left. The corner of his lips plummet down with a mix of compassion, consternation, and disbelief. It depresses me like a pierced balloon and my head drops under the weight of his stare. I still feel him examine my soul.
He clears his throat to shuffle out the awkward air. "Well, before I came in here, we finally reached your mom. She'll be here soon to pick you up."
Great. I didn't think it was possible, but my gut wrenches even further. I hoped they would never reach her. Why couldn't they let me leave on my own? A shaky breath sucks through my nostrils. Korver glints with sympathy at my dismay—he probably mistakes it as typical fear of a mother's scolding.
The lawyer stands and says he'll be back in a minute before clearing the room.
Left alone with dread and nothing else, I bore hollowly at my reflection in the mirrored glass on the opposite wall. Stormy blue eyes bear back underneath dark, hooded lashes and a prominent brow. My dirty-blond hair sticks in disarray from the night's earlier scuffle. I try to wipe the fatigue from the bags under my eyes but I feel it smear to my reddened, flushed cheeks. What are the odds I can escape before my mom arrives?
They let me off with a strongly worded warning and say to call them if I remember anything. The lawyer accompanies me outside to meet my 'legal guardian'. I'd rather spend the night in lockup. It's half past four in the morning when the old, dented sedan haphazardly barrels up to the station. Korver watches in horror beside me as the rust-red car screeches to a halt, tires scraping the sidewalk. Mom flies out of the car, slamming the door behind her, and I instinctively wince.
"Middle of the night, callin' me out here. Both sons arrested. Why you do this to me, huh?! You should join your brother to rot in jail for all I care!" she barks madly.
I step backwards and turn away from her, wrapping my arms around my frame. Judging by her tone and bloodshot eyes, her dear friend booze helped her here. At least I didn't disturb her from any beauty sleep.
"Ms. Wilde?" Korver affirms tentatively as if it might not be her—as if it could not be her, driving drunk in the early morning to pick up her teenage son.
"Wish I wasn't," she snorts. Nonetheless, her frazzled blond hair and sunken, make-up-smeared blue eyes show a slight resemblance to me, minus the glossy rage. If she were clean and stable-minded, Mom would probably be quite pretty.
"Are you intoxicated?" The lawyer inquires incredulously.
Rolling eyes stab like daggers as she ignores his accusation. "Nonya business. Get in the car, Cade," she growls before shutting herself back in.
Korver's concern returns stronger than before and now it is my turn to pity him. I half smirk and pretend it's all fine. I try to release him from his civic duty to ethics, but it doesn't work.
"Wait, Caden. Don't get in the car," he requests, but it's clear he's at a loss for what to do.
"It's okay," I say, trying to pacify him as I open the passenger-side door. "Thanks."
The worry is heavy in his brows, and he hastily fumbles through his jacket pocket. "Here," he says as he shoves a business card in my hand. "At least take this—and call me if you ever need anything or things get too rough. My cell is on it, too." His voice seems sincere, but I know better. He's no benevolent savior; he cares more about his white-knight image than about helping me.
Regardless of his faux empathy, he at least tried to make me feel that he meant it. I figure he deserves a gesture of gratitude for that much, so I toss a small wave as I climb into the car. He tracks us the whole time as the woman drives off like a runaway bandit. When we are out of his sight, I wish to be lucky enough for only neglect to welcome me home.
II
The noon sun hits harsh and I roll off the mattress, still reeling from the events of last night—and well, I guess earlier this morning. As I brush my teeth, I stare absently at the bathroom mirror, confused by the estranged teen staring back at me. He sports a slight bruise on his left cheekbone with a fresh cut through it, and I wonder where his life is headed. The familiar old scar sliced through his right eyebrow reminds that it's me.
I walk into the small living room and immediately spot Dan slouched on the lounger in front of the TV. He had been passed out this morning, so I was spared from him at my homecoming. He grunts territorially when I appear.
Mom sits at the speckled laminate countertop, and it looks like she's poured vodka in her orange juice to nurse the hangover. No reprieve. No mercy. "Well, look who's up and ungrateful as ever," she chides cooly. "Thought 'chu was 'sposed to be the one who pulled his shit together—tryin'a be good, earnin' money for rent and helpin' out in this house. But looks like you're just as cracked up as your brother." Her southern accent rolls over some of the slurred words. She rubs her temples wearily, "Cade, I can't deal with anythin' else anymore. I want 'chu out."
I snap to attention at her words, my heart dropping. An ache seizes my chest and the pulse echoes inside. Out—as in for now or leave and don't come back? But she's my mother. With Mase in jail and Tim gone, she's the only thing I've got left. Where would I even go?
"What do you mean?" My stuttering voice cracks like a small child. I do not feel my full height.
"I mean I don't want 'chu in my house anymore." Fully in charge of her faculties, she doubles down on her command. I search her eyes to see if she really means it. They're unwavering steel.
I am dumbfounded and mutter aimlessly, "But I gave you my rent this month." My rebuttal is barely audible.
Dan speaks up from his chair, "Ya deaf, kid? You heard her—get'cher stuff and leave. Now!"
His interference kicks the sleeping tiger inside me, and I shake off my stupor. A more familiar emotion takes the reigns. "Shut up, Dan, this ain't your place," I snarl before I can restrain myself.
In a second, he jumps to his feet and is in my face. "What 'chu say to me, punk?" His cussing sprinkles me with spit. Dan puffs his chest and lifts his chin in an attempt to tower over me. Although I'm taller, he's got sixty extra pounds on me, even if it is tucked in the folds of his beer belly. Despite this, it's still easier to meet his belligerent glower than it was to match that lawyer's steady gaze. Intimidation couldn't make me tuck tail and cower. "Better watch 'cher mouth," he finishes.
"Dan, he's sorry. Cade, go grab your stuff," my mom attempts as a weak buffer. It's futile, though, just as it always is.
"Get outta here," Dan says, needing to have the last remark. He shoves me back brusquely.
My head fumes as I fight to let it go. But I am a childish fool, after all, so I knock his shoulder as I pass. Level control lost to rage. Dan wouldn't allow that, and I knew it.
His pit stench reeks as he yanks me back by my tank and decks me across the jaw. I expected the blow, but that didn't make it easier to take. My head rears from the jolt, and I stumble back before throwing my own punch. I crack him in the eye. Turning red, he sends another fist at me, but I duck and uppercut him in the chin. Aware of his disadvantage, he uses his one strength—his weight—and drives his shoulder into my mid-section, nailing me to the wall like a freight train.
"Stop it!" Mom shouts, and I vaguely ponder for whom or what she's concerned for. Or maybe the loud noises made her head throb.
Once Dan is on a roll, there's no letting up. He pummels my rib cage as I'm pinned, but I manage a knee to his groin and kick him off me. Regrettably, the blow isn't powerful enough to deter the bull. I block below my chin as he charges up again, but he grabs my hair instead and rings my skull against the plaster. The wall gives in before Dan drops his hand. A trickle of something runs down my scalp. Spots and stars swarm my vision. I'm stunned from the bang. It's effortless when he throws me to the ground and swings a few swift kicks to my torso—cursing me all the while. Covering my head, I pull my knees to my chest to shield the worst.
When he's had his fill, he relents. Despite his bruising eye and busted chin, he grins smugly in his victory. "Now scram," he sneers.
How weak and humiliating. Tears burn, but I bite them back. Leftover adrenaline fuels the struggle to my room. I cram a few belongings into a backpack. I could've walked out of here untouched, but my temper sealed my fate. When I return, my mother refuses to look at me. Without so much as a goodbye, I stagger out the door. I'll never live to see seventeen.
AN: And there's a little taste of the beginning of my book "Die Young in the Wilde". If you'd like to find it on amazon, just search the title or the name 'J. Salt Marlow'. The link (broken up) is: www. amazon dp/B0CS1HCSJ8 Hope you enjoy :)